Vikings
by OccasionallyCreative
Summary: "Any child of yours, Molly Hooper, will be a wonder to behold."
1. Chapter 1

**_Author's Note:_**_This was inspired by an anonymous prompter who, to put it basically, asked for a Canon!Sherlolly AU based on the 2010 movie, "The Switch" (a really good movie, for a romantic comedy. I highly recommend it.) This fic will be a two-parter, and the next part should be up soon enough; that's if my other WIPs don't drown me in feelings. Rated T for swearing and other *ahem* stuff. Enjoy, and don't forget to leave a review/favourite/follow!_

_Set Post-The Sign of Three; takes place in the month between TSOT and His Last Vow and beyond._

* * *

_Fuck._

That was the word that passed through the fuzzy, plagued-by-alcohol brain of Sherlock Holmes as he, with an ever increasing feeling of dread, watched the thick, gooey liquid slip from the precious bottle and down the drain of the bathroom sink.

He didn't know how long he stayed there, frozen with his hand hovering over the edge of the sink, watching the water pool at the base. Trouble—that was what he was in—a _lot_ of trouble. He sat back onto the floor with a dull _thump_, his blurred vision just about catching the words scribbled onto the label.

_D… Do… Don…_

She would hate him. Everyone would hate him. Even his mother would—no. She wouldn't have to know. Why would he tell her? It wasn't like she'd wish to know what her younger son did in his spare time away from the family home. Especially not if he got up to such activities as this. Well, he didn't, so that was good. Maybe.

Sherlock groaned and ran his fingers through his curls. He stared at the bottle again, but the words still made no sense. They were jumbled, barely intelligible. Just how much alcohol had he consumed? John Watson had to be behind this. He'd obviously doubled his alcohol intake, shoved him inside here and waited for the results.

No, that wasn't possible. He wouldn't be so… whatever it was that deceitful people were. There was only one person who had led him to this point, slumped on the floor on Molly Hooper's bathroom, steaming drunk and with an empty sperm donor bottle in his hand.

That one person was, unfortunately, him.

* * *

"Sherlock I wanted to talk to you about something—"

Her following words were cut off by the sound of the electric saw against the skull of the corpse between them, and Sherlock grunted in reply. He could've sworn to see Molly roll her eyes as she continued to work, but he decided to ignore that for the time being.

"I was wondering if you could get me a head," he said after a moment. "I need to look into the effects—"

"_Sherlock,_" Molly said impatiently and she switched off the saw and flipped up her visor. "This is important."

Finally he looked up, only to immediately frown as he watched her. Twitching of hands, crinkle of brow; something was wrong. Yet she was smiling too; a genuine smile, one of excitement. So whatever was wrong was also something she felt was right. Hm. Puzzling.

Molly smiled wider.

"I'm having a baby."

"You're… pregnant?" Sherlock asked with a swallow. He wasn't envious, not at all. Nor was he surprised. Nor was he currently furiously trying to deduce who the father was; and even if he was, that all blew away with Molly's next sentence.

"Christ, not yet! No, I'm – well, after all of that stuff with Tom, I just felt like – I'm not explaining this properly. I _am_ going to have a baby; I just don't know who the father is yet."

Sherlock nodded curtly and gave a shrug. "Sexual promiscuity isn't uncommon these days, it's—"

Molly's cheeks and neck flushed a deep red and she shook her head, flapping her hands a little.

"No, it's nothing like that! I'm going by donor."

"Donor."

"Yeah. Artificial insemination. I'm sure you've heard of it?"

"And you're telling me because?"

"Because you're my friend and I want you to know," Molly said simply.

Sherlock gave a false smile, followed by a quick nod. It wasn't his place to dictate what Molly wanted or what her decisions were. If she wanted a child, then she wanted a child. She was a logical woman; it was only sensible that she—feeling herself to be somewhat unlucky in the department of romantic relationships—would want to go for a more scientific method.

It was completely logical, and utterly sound in terms of planning. Easy, necessary to her needs and had little to no emotional attachment. It was the perfect arrangement for Molly Hooper, pathologist at St. Bart's Hospital.

That thought didn't provide any comfort for him. Nor did it stop him from clearing his throat and muttering a small excuse for his departure before he swept from the morgue.

* * *

He spent longer than he would've cared to admit on his reflection of Molly's decision. From the moment he got back to Baker Street that afternoon, he had shrugged off his coat, threw on his dressing gown and settled himself onto the sofa (well, he had more thrown himself and accompanied the gesture with a dramatic sigh) before he tucked his fingers under his chin and stared up at the ceiling.

That position was the one he remained in until he heard the familiar knock of the door that came with John Watson's entrance to 221b Baker Street. On hearing it, he opened one eye and raised an eyebrow.

"You're putting on weight."

"Blame Mary's cooking," John retorted. "You texted me about a case?"

"Solved it," Sherlock said with a shrug. "Uncle did it, buried brother in backyard to avoid suspicion. Shallow grave, didn't count on heavy rainfall."

Opening both eyes, his gaze flicked back to the ceiling. He didn't need to look to know that John had pulled one of his (by now trademark) '_I don't know why I bother_' faces before he'd settled down into his chair, just in time for Mrs Hudson to advance up the steps with a tray of tea in her hands.

Sure enough, the door swung open and Mrs Hudson's voice trilled a bright greeting.

"Hello John! Didn't know you'd be coming round. Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Tea would be lovely, Mrs Hudson, thank you."

"Biscuit?"

"He only eats Mary's now Mrs Hudson," Sherlock drawled, smirking slightly as John again protested that it wasn't his fault that his wife cooked so well.

"I know dear," Mrs Hudson said as she continued to chatter. "Men are all the same. Always say they don't want something to eat, but then they are, chomping away as soon as your back's turned! How's Mary by the way? Doing well?"

"Yeah, yeah, she's doing great. She's enjoying being pregnant."

"Oh, that's nice. So lovely to be having a child, don't you think? Actually, talking of children – did you hear about Molly?"

At this, Sherlock's gaze moved slowly over to John. He watched his friend's face change as Mrs Hudson relayed the news to him; when she was finished however, he did not display the same reaction as Sherlock had done, but instead a sort of faint amusement.

"Wow," he said after a moment. "That's – interesting. Good luck to her I guess."

Sherlock huffed and threw himself back on the sofa. Annoyingly, John was right: it _was_ an interesting decision. More than that, it was puzzling. Why now? She had never mentioned a desire for children before—or had it just not come up in their conversations before? She wasn't old either; her 'time' wasn't running out. Simple biological knowledge could tell him that.

So why on Earth was she making this leap?

He bolted up. _Tom._ She'd mentioned him. Clearly their parting had been much more antagonistic than she had ever made out, if she was willing to give birth to an actual living and breathing child to try and get over the man. (Though that would mean she would've had to have had some actual feelings for him. Damn it.)

Sherlock was up and out of the door before John and Mrs Hudson were even allowed to notice that he had gone.

* * *

If he were in any other situation, he would have knocked. In this situation however, knocking was an unnecessary evil and quite fortunately, her door was unlocked anyway. (He made a mental note to warn her in the near future about the need for security.) He stepped through.

On a good day, Molly's flat often looked akin to a bomb site. Papers were strewn over tables, cups seemed to collect themselves on coffee and side tables, books were stacked precariously in corners and on shelves and clothes seemed to belong more on the floor than in a laundry basket. Sherlock however, had long ago decided he preferred it that way. She may have been untidy, but she was not slovenly. The disorganisation of her home was less of a consequence of laziness and more a reflection on her busy lifestyle.

When he walked in on that night though, everything was tidy. Toby, her exasperating hairball excuse for a cat, was curled up on the only armchair in the room. Any papers were neatly filed away on the coffee table; any books were carefully arranged in the bookshelf; her clothes too, were gone, presumably stuffed inside some laundry basket he was yet to see or find.

He felt uncharacteristically stupid as he gingerly stepped forward.

"Molly?"

Her voice, light and happy, floated from the kitchen. "I'll be out in a minute! Make yourself comfortable!"

Decidedly the opposite of comfortable, Sherlock perched on the edge of the sofa. Molly, much to his surprise, continued to speak. Either she had forgotten the abrupt manner in which he'd departed their earlier conversation, or she thought he was someone else. He decided to hope for the former.

"I'm just making up some tea – its decaf, if you're okay with that. I mean, of course it's decaf; I've got nine months of the stuff to look forward to so I might as well get used to – Sherlock!"

She stopped in her tracks as she entered into the living room. She had changed from her earlier clothing into a decidedly neater ensemble; instead of the customary colourful, inevitably fruit-based cardigan and dull dark trousers she wore in the morgue, she now wore a blouse with a neat bow and jeans. Her feet were bare. Relaxed, but smart.

"You're meeting someone," he said, almost dumbly. She gave a small nod.

"I am. It's—" She never got to tell him; a ringing of her doorbell was what stopped her.

Instantly, she began to move. Raking her fingers through her hair, she shooed Toby from his place on the armchair (earning a protesting hiss from the creature for her efforts) and practically sprinted towards the door to pull it open, a wide grin on her face. A man—dark haired, bearded, tall—stepped through.

"Hi," he said smoothly. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Irish. Of course he'd be Irish. With a huff, he rose to his feet. The arrival came to a halt on seeing him and blinked, looking to Molly.

"Um – is this your boyfriend then?"

Molly spluttered a giggle and flushed red, vigorously shaking her head.

"No! No, no. This is Sherlock Holmes; he's just my friend."

"Yes," Sherlock said slowly. He stepped forward and held out his hand. "Just a friend."

The man gave a sigh of relief and shook Sherlock's outstretched hand. "Oh, thank God. That would've been awkward, if you know what I mean."

"No, I don't think I do."

The man's smile slipped into a nervous frown. "Uh… well, you know. I'm… _the donor._ It just feels a bit weird, talking about… the thing in front of another guy."

To say that the silence that fell over the three was awkward would to be a great underestimation.

"Donald," Molly said brightly. "Do you want something to drink? I was just – making some coffee."

_Donald_ gave a relieved sigh and nodded. "Cuppa would be lovely, actually. Milk, one sugar, if you please."

Molly grinned and clapped her hands together before she spun around and headed towards the kitchen. Sherlock smiled falsely at _Donald._

"I suppose then that your sperm count is high?"

It was as if he had released a fox into a chicken coop. Molly actually yelped as she spun around, whilst Donald blushed beetroot red.

"Uh – uh…"

"Sherlock – could I speak to you for a second?" Molly's voice was tight. "In the kitchen."

Although she had asked him, Sherlock got the strangest inkling that he had no choice in the matter; that inkling was confirmed when she captured his arm in an iron-like grip and steered him towards the kitchen, pushing him inside and slamming the door behind them. Letting out a breath, she whirled on him, eyes blazing.

"What the _hell_ do you think you are doing?!"

"Helping you choose a donor. That one isn't a good choice by the way; he's married, for a start."

"I know!" Molly cried, exasperated. Sherlock blinked.

"You know."

"Of course I do! I didn't just meet him on the street and ask him to give me a baby! He's signed up with The London Sperm Bank."

Sherlock paused for a moment. "That actually exists?"

Molly sighed heavily, scowling as she crossed her arms over her chest. "Why are you so against this?"

Sherlock laughed. "I am not against this, Molly. I'm helping you to be careful, that's all."

"No, you're really not. You're acting like a spoiled brat."

Sherlock huffed. "Look, I just don't see why you feel the need to have a baby just to get over _Tom._ It is, to be honest, the act of a desperate woman."

Going by the way in which Molly's expression darkened and she stepped towards with an arched eyebrow, he quickly guessed that he had said exactly the wrong thing. Molly brushed her hair from her eyes, her glare still fixed straight on him.

"Tom? You think I'm doing this because of Tom?"

"In my defence, you _did_ mention him—"

"_As an example!_ I'm getting old, Sherlock. I want a kid. Sure, this isn't entirely how I envisioned having one, but at least I'm getting what I want and at least I get to choose whose sperm I use. And Sherlock, you're ruining it for me. You're not being supportive, and you're certainly not helping."

"Oh, well, I apologise for trying to help you see that this isn't exactly the healthiest way of coping with a breakup!"

"_This isn't about Tom!_" Molly yelled, before she took a steadying breath, touching briefly at her temple. "I want and I am having a child. If you have a problem with that, then you can feel entirely free to leave."

Although he did have plenty of problems with the situation at hand, he made no attempt to leave. Instead, he remained fixed to where he stood, blinking slightly in surprise at Molly's suddenly forthright nature. She was never usually this stubborn or this angry—unless of course, he had done something wrong. Therefore, logic dictated he had indeed done something wrong. Shifting his weight from head to foot, he tilted his head at her.

"Why didn't you ask me?"

Molly stumbled back at the bluntness of his question, and a blush grew over her cheeks. Somehow, she was more embarrassed by this question asked in the intimacy of her kitchen rather than any other question he had asked thus far.

"I'm sorry?"

"Why didn't you ask me?" Sherlock repeated his tone matter-of-fact. "Isn't my sperm good enough?"

Molly let out a squeak of surprise—or perhaps something else, it was difficult to tell—and her blush deepened.

"No!" she whispered. "No and no! I can't, and you know I can't."

"Why not? I am after all, a friend, and we know each other. Surely it's better to use a friend's offering rather than a—"

Molly held up her hands, causing Sherlock's train of thought to stutter to a halt. When he raised an eyebrow in a silent question, she slowly shook her head. Her expression, he now noticed, did not carry the same amount of rage that it had done only moments before. It was softer, sadder; unreadable too.

"Sherlock, please, stop." Her voice was gentle. "You know why I can't ask you. You _know._"

He swallowed a little. He did know, but at the same time, he didn't know. As such, he chose not to reply to her observation. To reply was to delve into a whole world of complications.

Only a brief moment of silence went by before he finally made to move. Head bowed a little, he swept past Molly and out of the kitchen. He heard Donald throw a cheerful, if awkward, goodbye at him as he departed from the flat. Again, he did not reply.

* * *

It was a week later, not a day after he had been taken into the employ of Lady Smallwood, that Sherlock woke to find among his post a bright pink envelope, the familiar, feminine and looped writing of Molly Hooper written across it, spelling out his name and address. Inside said envelope, he found an equally bright, luridly cheerful invitation.

"Insemination party?" he mumbled under his breath and he rubbed at his tired eyes. Perhaps he had read it wrong. When he checked again however, the words were still there in large, invasive lettering: _I'm Getting Pregnant!_

With a sigh, Sherlock flipped the card over and dropped it onto the kitchen table with the intent of forgetting all about. A flash of smaller, but still equally familiar, writing caused him to pick it up again. A smile twitched at the edges of his mouth as he scanned the small note situated in the top corner of the invitation.

_I won't apologise for the invite, as I like pink and I __am__ getting pregnant. It would be so great if I could see you here tonight. Molly xxx_

The three kisses did not go unnoticed.

* * *

When he arrived at the party, he found that the choice of music was distinctly 80s. That was the first bad thing about it. The second bad thing was that he found himself accosted by Meena. Molly's closest friend—aside from him of course—she was distinctly professional and almost tolerable when she was performing her duties at St. Bart's, but was alternative, bohemian and entirely intolerable when outside of the hospital. By the time he had stepped through the door of her home, it was all too clear that Meena had already ingested a fair amount of alcohol.

"Sherlock! Lovely to see you!" she said faux brightly as she shoved a glass of champagne into his hands. That was the only redeemable thing about Meena; on meeting him, she had immediately recognised him to be an obnoxious arsehole, and had made no bones about duly treating him as such.

"Lovely to see you too Meena," Sherlock said drily as he scanned the crowds.

"If you're looking for Molly, she's in my bedroom. Bit overwhelmed I think."

"I'd think so. I presume this whole scheme was your idea?"

Meena gave a proud nod. "Mm-hm. It's a big thing you know – having a kid! I wasn't going to let Molly celebrate it all by herself now was I?"

"Hm," Sherlock said shortly, and after making the decision that it was beneficial for both him and Meena to part her company as quickly as possible, he stepped away. Behind him, Meena gave another joyful cry as another guest stepped through the door. Sherlock took a larger gulp of champagne than was necessary and weaved through the crowds towards the living room, where he found John and Mary sat on the sofa, easily fitting into the whole tone and atmosphere of the party, social chameleons that they were.

On seeing his best friend, John cracked into laughter.

"Sherlock, you could at least _look_ like you're having fun."

"Why? I've never been a fan of loud, obnoxious occasions before now – why should I start pretending now?"

"Because it's for Molly," Mary said quickly, grinning up at him. "And as her friend, you're supposed to be happy for her!"

"Yes. As her friend," Sherlock echoed and he took another gulp of his champagne, squinting as the alcohol took its effect. Briefly, the room swirled. He blinked. Surely he could hold his intake better than this? He managed to focus his stare on John, who frowned.

"Sherlock?"

"Fine – I'm fine," Sherlock said and he blinked again. Why couldn't he just _focus?_ "Molly – no, wait – kitchen. Kit. Chen."

He turned on his heel and headed out of the living room, leaving a perplexed John and a slowly realising Mary behind him.

"I know he's terrible with alcohol, but he can't be _that_ bad."

"No-one's that bad," Mary said, as she took the last gulp of her water and stood up to head out of the living room, calling out just one name as she went. "Meena!"

* * *

Mary had met Meena a few times, over lunches and during various girls' days out with Molly, and so she knew of Meena's penchant for 'alternative remedies'. It wasn't to say she judged Meena for it, but she did judge people who spiked other people's drinks; especially if those other people were her friends.

She found her outside, a particularly pungent cigarette hanging from her lips as she adjusted the paper lanterns that decoratively dotted the path up to her house.

"Meena," Mary said, grabbing at her elbow and turning her around. "What the hell did you give Sherlock?"

For the briefest of moments, Meena appeared to think playing innocent was the way to navigate this particular conversation, but after she took a puff of the joint between her lips, she thought better of it and instead gave a shrug.

"Look, when he came through that door, he looked like he was attending a funeral, not a party. I thought it was best to – loosen him up a bit. Stop him being such an arsehole, y'know?"

"That doesn't mean you spike his drink," Mary hissed.

"C'mon! I put, like, half a pill in there. It'll barely affect him."

"Sherlock can't cope even with normal alcohol, let alone drugged alcohol!"

This seemed to get through to Meena, whose features paled. She inhaled another dose of her joint, but that didn't serve to calm her.

"It'll be fine," she said, her false grin giving away just how not fine it would be. "As long as he stays away from the guacamole, he'll be fine."

"What, is the guacamole drugged too?"

"No. It's just really good guacamole."

* * *

Sherlock had never really indulged in party food before; as he barely ate in his day to day life anyway, he'd never seen the need. On the other hand, he'd never encountered such stupendous guacamole before. Taking up another tortilla chip, he dunked it into the bowl and shoved it into his mouth. His chewing was no doubt an obnoxious sight, but who was he to deny himself the glories of guacamole? He took another portion and again, shoved it into his mouth.

"Enjoying the party?"

He did not hide the groan that came with his hearing of _Donald's_ smooth Irish accent, but if that had offended Donald, it didn't matter. Donald—Donald the donor—still parked himself in the kitchen chair opposite. He gave a heavy sigh, soon followed by a nervous grin.

"Wow. This is all a – a bit intense, isn't it?"

Sherlock shrugged petulantly and snapped off a corner of his tortilla chip. "I wouldn't know. I'm not the prize hog."

"Hm. I honestly didn't think there would be this much of a fuss about it all."

"If you wish to put blame on anyone, put the blame on Meena," Sherlock said his bitter tone loud and clear. "She set up the whole scheme."

Donald nodded, clearing his throat. "Yeah, uh – yeah. I met her. She's – she's a feisty one."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he carefully pushed the guacamole to one side, his eyes never once leaving _Donald._ He leaned forward, again taking a bite of his tortilla chip. He slowly chewed it, almost pondering.

"Why did you do it?"

"What – sign up?"

"With the London Sperm – _thing._ Why?"

"Oh," Donald gave a nervous laugh and his gaze flitted towards the door. "Well, uh, my wife and I… we've already got two kids – thought it was selfish to uh – well. Call it an act of charity, I guess."

"Your _wife,_" Sherlock repeated, the words elongated and slurred. Slurred? Odd. "Are you having troubles with your – wife?"

"No, none at all. No, she's… she's beautiful. We married three years ago. Love at first sight. The kids followed straight after. Yeah, uh… we're in love. Still going strong, knock on wood!" Donald gave a quick tap at the kitchen table with his knuckles to prove his point.

"Humph." Sherlock leaned back in his chair and took up another portion of guacamole and made to bite into it. Unfortunately for his—already rather reduced—dignity, his mouth missed the portion entirely and the tortilla chip promptly snapped into two, leaving him with a rather large guacamole stain on his previously pristine shirt. Using this as his chance to leave, Donald nodded at him once and quickly departed. With a heavy sigh, Sherlock stood and stumbled his way past the kitchen table and towards the sink.

"Sherlock, are you – damn." Behind him, Mary gave a sigh. "You found the guacamole."

"It's very good," Sherlock mumbled, turning around and leaning against the sink. Mary raised an eyebrow, and Sherlock lowered his gaze. Seeing the guacamole, he sloppily reached up and grabbed the excess from his shirt, dropping it into the sink. Mary rolled her eyes.

"Stand still," she ordered and she moved towards him, grabbing at a wodge of kitchen roll. Without a word, she cleaned him up and brushed him down, eyeing him.

"Molly's still hiding. Go and see her."

"Don't want to," he mumbled, his tone not too dissimilar to that of a petulant toddler.

"_Go._"

He went.

* * *

His knock against the bedroom door was tentative. The following call of "who is it?" was soft. If he weren't paying full attention, it might have become lost against the pounding 80's music. Fortunately, he heard her voice loud and clear. Instead of answering her however, he took her question as a sign that he was allowed inside, and as such, he pushed open the door and entered. On seeing him come in, Molly—at that point sat cross-legged at the head of the bed, surrounded by pillows and various trinkets of a bohemian nature—smiled.

"Hello. Shut the door, won't you?"

He obediently did so, and he again obeyed her when she gently patted the space on the bed in front of her, mirroring her crossed legs and her slumped posture as he sat. Molly watched him.

"You're drunk, aren't you?"

Shrugging, he rubbed at the back of his neck.

"Yep." He narrowed his eyes at her and raised a finger towards her eye line. "And _you_ are hiding."

Molly raised an eyebrow. "Is it that obvious?"

"Mm-hm."

"Thought so. I don't know, I guess – I guess I thought it would be easy – it's always seemed so easy on paper. But now – everything's just become so – _big._"

Sherlock made a face. "You didn't have to have the party."

Having grown used to his blunt and overly honest ways (ways that were seemingly exacerbated by his intake of alcohol) Molly just gave a breath of a laugh and reached forward, touching her fingers against his open palm.

"Meena's into palm reading – just as a hobby though," she added on seeing him wrinkle his nose in disbelief. Her dimples deepened as she smiled and his eyes slowly dropped towards his hand, listening as she traced the pad of her fingers against the lines of his skin. "This is your heart line. This is your head line; and this is your life line. Yours are all pretty long to be honest."

"Does that mean anything?" He tried not to sound mocking, but sound mocking he did. He felt Molly's eyes flick up to settle on him.

"I have no idea." A giggle burst from her and she let his hand drop back into his lap. Her giggles faded away as he lifted his gaze towards her, and the same look of quiet terror overcame her features. She worried at her bottom lip.

"What if I fail, Sherlock? What if I'm not a good mum? What if – what if my child gets taken into – I don't know – social services or something, because I don't measure up? I don't want my child to be a statistic."

Sherlock felt himself smile. If sober, he would not have known quite what to say when confronted with this heartfelt confession of emotion; but on seeing his friend, his Molly, upset and scared and nervous when she should've been happy and at peace, he knew he needed to provide her with at least a crumb of comfort. Gently, he reached forward and cupped her cheeks with both his hands. Her brown eyes lightened with warmth.

"Any child of yours, Molly Hooper, will be a wonder to behold."

At this, her smile grew and he felt her squeeze at his arm as he leaned forward and kissed her forehead before he drew his hands away from her face.

"Thank you, Sherlock." Her smile widened as she patted at his knee. "When you're not being a complete arse, you're quite sweet."

"Because I'm highly unlikely to remember any of this tomorrow, I'll accept that back-handed compliment."

Molly laughed and briefly rolled her eyes. "Glad to hear it."

Unfurling her legs from underneath her, she slid off the bed and stood, only pausing to fix an elaborate flower crown to the top of her head. She met Sherlock's raised eyebrow with a scrunch of her nose.

"Don't laugh – I personally think I look quite cute."

"Only you would think a flower crown looks 'cute', Molly."

Her only response to that was to swiftly stick out her tongue before she headed out of the door.

* * *

It was a little while later that Sherlock found himself stood, swaying gently, in a corner of Meena's living room, with the rest of the guests—and _Donald_—all squashed in there with him. By the fireplace stood Meena, with a severely embarrassed Molly situated beside her. Meena, having partaken in an increasingly large amount of alcohol, had a bright and happy tone to her voice.

"Okay! So, as Donald, our Viking of the night, has now kindly provided his offering,"—at this, there was a tittering of giggles from some of the guests whereas Donald awkwardly cleared his throat and tried not to look anyone in the eye—"we are all supposed to leave. However, before any sort of… _transaction_ is made here tonight, I have to say a few words. I have to say a few words to Molly. Molly, you are the reason we are all here tonight, and honestly – I couldn't be prouder of you. You're taking control of your life, and you are such an inspiration honey – _such_ an inspiration – to _all_ of us!"

Meena raised her champagne glass high. "A toast! To Molly!"

The guests replied in kind, and Sherlock couldn't help but smile as he saw Molly, as the pounding music resumed, briefly close her eyes, steeling herself for the congratulations that were now coming her way.

He did not however, stay for the dancing; mostly for the reason that he had come to the realisation that he needed to pee. Half-stumbling, half-walking out of the living room, he made his way down the corridor and towards the bathroom door. When he tried it, it was locked. He knocked what he believed to be a light, polite knock but somehow managed to come out as an impatient pounding.

"Bugger off!" John's voice came floating through the door, and Sherlock could've sworn to have briefly heard a distinctly familiar female giggle. He raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. Mary wouldn't be pregnant if they weren't at these levels of amorous. Although the irony of the situation did cause him to chuckle.

"You're a dog, John Watson!" he called through the door and he took another gulp of his drink.

"Look, just piss off!" Frustration edged at John's voice. Mary's giggling grew louder. "Use the bathroom upstairs, Sherlock!"

"Will do, will do! Enjoy your—" The end of his sentence was cut off by a large, unexpected burp. A trail of a laugh escaped him and Sherlock pulled himself away from the door and turned towards the spiral set of stairs that led up to the first floor. With a firm grip on the rail, he just about managed to reach the top without falling over.

The bathroom, he managed to figure out through his blurred vision, was signified by a cartoon of a toilet holding a toilet brush with the supposedly funny, definitely vulgar comment of "Number twos only". The exclamation mark after it was particularly blatant. Sherlock therefore blinked when he stepped inside and switched on the light. It was a lot more… organised than he expected it. Cleaner. More neutral. Clinical. Yes, clinical. Posters and papers were stuck to the door; although his vision wasn't at its sharpest, but he still managed to pick out certain words. _Ovarian pain._ _Cycle day._ Pink dots with numbers.

"Molly," he muttered, shaking his head. "Molly, Molly, Molly…"

Giving a sigh, he turned around and moved over to the toilet, unzipping his trousers. He pressed his hand against the wall for stability as he peed, and duly washed his hands afterwards, pressing his cool, damp hands against his warmed face. Why did people get so warm when they were drunk? He needed to look into that. Perhaps through research or an experiment; he'd look into that later. Drawing himself away from the sink, he reached for a hand towel from the upper shelf.

His gaze semi-focused on a bottle, white with a blue screw-on cap. It was surrounded by weirdly-scented candles (vanilla? Sick? Hard to tell) and a bunch of bright yellow, fake flowers. Dropping the hand towel to the floor, he made a reach for it.

Leaning against the sink, Sherlock slowly unscrewed the lid. He frowned as he briefly looked at the white, gloopy liquid swirling inside. His frown deepened as he tilted the bottle slightly. A name, hastily scribbled onto the label, screamed out at him.

_Donald._

"Donald," Sherlock muttered. "Twat."

* * *

The tap ran with cold water, forming a pool against the base of the sink. Knelt over it was Sherlock, still with the bottle in hand. Gently, with a soft laugh escaping him, he waved the bottle backwards and forwards over the small pool of water with a childish fascination as the thick liquid inside the bottle almost reached the tip of the bottle before he immediately drew it back.

A pounding came at the door. "Hey! Anyone in here?"

"_I'm_ in here!" Sherlock blurted out, indignant at being interrupted.

That same indignant attitude soon evaporated when he looked back at the sink to find that he had let the bottle drop from his fingers, and Donald the donor's sperm was now merrily making its way down the plughole.

Sat on the bathroom floor, Sherlock gazed at the now empty sperm bottle and wondered what in hell he was supposed to do now. First, he remained still. Second, he panicked; small whines and tugs through his curls were the only indicator of the internal screaming that now took place. What could he do? Donald the donor was, well, now no longer a donor. The sperm that was going to be was now the sperm that would never be.

"Stupid…" he muttered under his breath, "stupid – _stupid!_"

Hated, reviled; that was what he would be. Most of all, most importantly of all, he had deprived Molly Hooper, sweet and kind and dependable Molly Hooper, of a child. A child who would've been loved and cherished and looked after and would've been made content, whatever it took. He taken that away, and all because he'd managed, in a fit of drunken jealousy, to flush away Donald's act of charity.

Sherlock's head snapped up.

Act of charity.

What if—well, no-one else was here. No-one else but him knew what had happened. Couldn't he just… perform his own—'act of charity'? He could just be a... a temporary Viking. To replace the one that had become waylaid.

Positioning himself on the toilet seat, Sherlock grabbed at the usual stack of bathroom magazines. Quickly, he flicked through them.

IKEA catalogue? No.

Good Housekeeping? Definitely not.

Knitting patterns? Why did Meena have knitting patterns? Who had knitting patterns in a bathroom?

Woman & Home? No—_wait._ He squinted. Blonde hair, white teeth. Big smile. He knew that woman. John had mentioned her. And her distinctive voice.

Ma – Mariella. Frostrup! Yes, that was it. Mariella Frostrup.

Sherlock leaned back against the toilet. Well, she was pretty enough, it had to be said. Infinitely better than knitting patterns, that was for absolutely sure.

Slowly, he reached forward, locked the door and reached to unzip his trousers.

No-one would know.

Absolutely no-one.

* * *

The next morning, Sherlock awoke with a headache of such magnitude that he decided it would have been much more tolerable to listen to Mycroft than to have a whole marching band play incessantly in his head. Even blinking hurt.

So how he made it to John's house without throwing up and only a slight, irregular bout of heavy groaning, he did not know. He decided to count it as a miracle. Yet when he knocked on the door—an action which only seemed to increase the speed of his internal marching band—he did not receive the warm and welcoming pity party he had been hoping for. Instead, John glared at him briefly before he slammed the door closed.

"John!" Sherlock called, knocking at the door again. "_John!_"

"I'm only opening this door if you're sober."

"I am! Highly hungover, but sober!"

"Promise?"

"Open this bloody door!"

"You're sober."

The door opened soon after, and John's glare was still there. He pulled his dressing gown tighter around himself and rubbed at his eyes before he focused on Sherlock again. "Just so you know, we are no longer friends."

"What?" Sherlock asked, following on as John began to make his way down the hallway and into his living room. "Did I do something wrong?"

John gave a short laugh. "_Something_ wrong? I could make a list, Sherlock! You showed up here at 3 in the bloody morning, you—"

"I was here? Last night?"

"Yeah – and you would _not _shut up." John gave a sigh and settled into his armchair, sipping at a large mug of tea. "Seriously. Forty five minutes of you mumbling about acts of charity and – flower crowns and Vikings and Mariella Frostrup – how do you even _know_ of Mariella Frostrup? For God's sake, Sherlock. You need help."

Slowly, with an increasingly puzzled frown, Sherlock settled against the sofa. He drew his hands over his face.

"John, I don't remember any of that."

"What, did you tune yourself out or something? Because honestly, I would not be surprised."

"Nope; I genuinely do not remember any of that. I remember – I remember arriving at the party and—"

John raised an eyebrow. "_And?_"

Sherlock shrugged in an admittance of defeat. "And nothing."

"Hm. Well, Sherlock, just don't do anything else stupid, okay? Because seriously – last night, you were weird."

"John, I'm always 'weird'."

"Exactly. So the fact that I'm calling last night 'weird' should tell you something."

* * *

Unfortunately for Sherlock, it all seemed to head downhill from there. His employment under Lady Smallwood, in order to investigate Charles Augustus Magnussen and retrieve a set of explicit letters, soon took up all his time, and in his determination, he found himself heading down some particularly taboo paths. It was soon after he had gone down the most taboo of paths in order to catch Magnussen's attention that John and Mary had discovered him. It was only half an hour after their discovery of his activities that Molly discovered them as well. Unlike John's choice to verbally rage at him however, Molly had taken a much more physical approach. The slaps to his face stung and her anger, her hurt and her disappointment was an image Sherlock was unlikely to forget.

The image and her actions stayed with him until the day she visited him in hospital. Aside from Mycroft—who had only come in and dumped a bag of grapes on his lap, told him to be more careful in future and departed as quickly as he had left—Molly was his first official visitor.

At first, he did not notice her as a result of his being asleep, but his eyes soon fluttered open when he heard the soft tap of her knuckles on the hospital room door and the even softer call of "hello" that came with it. A smile grew against his mouth and he tilted his head against the pillow, looking at her.

"Morphine's allowed, I take it."

Picking at her thumbnails, she bit back a laugh. "When it's saving your life, yes."

"Glad to hear it."

Her gaze flicked towards the discarded grapes on the hospital trolley.

"Mycroft," he said by way of explanation. "He's a rubbish big brother."

"Clearly." She settled herself into the chair beside his bed and leaned forward, her elbows tucked against her knees. "Sherlock, I just wanted to—"

"I know."

She blinked. "You know?"

His gaze flicked down to her abdomen. Her baggy clothing hid the bump well. Really, one could only notice it if they were intent on looking for it.

"How far along are you?"

"Oh, um – little under two months. Everything went well."

"So Donald the donor performed his duty," Sherlock said softly, to which Molly smiled, tucking her hair behind her ear.

"And uh, Sherlock… I wanted to say sorry. For the – slaps. You needed them, but still."

"You want to apologise. Clear the air."

Sherlock tried for another smile, but this one was less genuine. After all, he had a feeling he knew exactly what she was really here for. Part of him hoped this was one of the rare occasions that his instinct was wrong.

"Basically. And you've probably worked this out already, but – well, I've been thinking." She picked at her thumbnail again, and her gaze fell to the floor as she spoke. "London is – it's so expensive these days. I can't raise a kid here. And I want to do this right."

She let out a breath, steeling herself as she looked back to him. He made no attempt to look away from her.

"I'm moving. I've found this place in Suffolk – it's cheap, and it's in a good area. It'll be a great place to raise the baby."

"Suffolk." Sherlock swallowed slightly. "Right. That's – good."

He felt her warm fingers wrap around his and he watched her as she stood and moved closer towards his side.

"Sherlock, I know you don't remember saying this, as you were incredibly drunk at the time and I know you tune almost everything out, but you – you told me that any child of mine would be a wonder." She chewed a little at her bottom lip. Nervous habit. "Do you still believe that?"

Sherlock's grip around her fingers tightened.

"I wouldn't have said it if I didn't."

"Even drunk?"

He chuckled and gave a slow nod. "Even drunk."

She let out a breath of relief. A hurt he didn't want to recognise pricked at him when her eyes becoming damp with tears. Quickly, she ducked her head, pressing her lips to his cheek. Neither of them failed to notice the way in which she lingered briefly against his skin.

She straightened up, and Sherlock's grip around her hand loosened.

"Thanks for everything, Sherlock. Be nice to the other pathologists, won't you?"

"You always had too much faith in me, Molly Hooper."

"I have to, don't I?" She kissed him again, this time a brief, non-intimate press of her lips to the top of his curls. After that, it was with one more warm smile over her shoulder that Molly Hooper walked out of Sherlock Holmes' life.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Author's Note:**__ Firstly, this fic is growing so big, I decided to bite the bullet and make this a three-parter. Secondly, I apologise for the lack of updates. When I first posted this, I thought the update would come along soon enough, but then a number of huge events in my personal life happened and this WIP had to take a backseat for a while. I can't promise anything about when the next update will be, but I will try to get it up on the internet as soon as it's possible for me to do so._

_Also, gratuitous Lord of the Rings reference is gratuitous._ _Don't judge me._

* * *

**Seven Years Later**

It took 84 months, 364 weeks and 2,555 days, one brief return of an archenemy, countless e-mails, regular Christmas cards and endless unfulfilled promises to see one another soon for Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper to reunite.

It wasn't that the seven years apart crawled by, for either of them. He had the focus of London's criminal underworld and the solving of numerous cases to keep him occupied, while she was busy being not only an efficient and loving single mother, but being good at her job too.

After the first four years or so, Sherlock deemed himself content with his life. True, he could never quite forget—nor forgive himself for—the fact that his last goodbye to Molly had been from a hospital bed; nor could he go into St. Bart's without feeling just a little hollow at the fact that he was no longer greeted with a smile but instead challenges from staff and demands for reasons as to why he needed access.

As such, it was a rather heady sense of relief that swept through him when he, in the middle of examining a not particularly puzzling crime scene, just so happened to hear Lestrade and John's conversation. They exchanged the usual small talk, with John briefly discussing Ruby's progress and Lestrade, as an older and wiser father, giving what he deemed to be good advice.

"Oh, yeah – has Molly talked to you yet?"

Sherlock gave the briefest of pauses, listening harder.

"No," John replied, his tone one of surprise. "Though she might've talked to Mary. What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong – just that she's moving back to London."

Sherlock shot to his feet, promptly hitting his head on a rather low section of ceiling. Lestrade frowned at him, amusement in his eyes as he watched Sherlock desperately try not to appear too eager as he rubbed at his now sore head.

"Molly?" he asked. "She's moving back?"

"Yeah. Blimey, didn't you know? She told me she'd left you a message."

Sherlock scoffed as he drew his phone from his coat. "Left me a message? I check my phone all the time – I would _know_ if she'd left me a – oh."

Lestrade smirked triumphantly as Sherlock turned away and pressed the phone to his ear to hear the warm voice of Molly Hooper.

"Oh, hi – Sherlock, it's Molly. You'll never guess! Well, you probably will guess, but – anyway. I'm rambling, sorry. Blame the excitement. But yes – I wanted you to be the first to know – we are moving back to London! I've got this really wonderful job offer, and I found this really, really lovely school for Felix – but yeah. Moving back to London! Call me, okay?"

Quietly, Sherlock pulled the phone away from his ear.

"Well?" Lestrade asked from behind him. "Did she?"

Sherlock whipped around, pointing to the body.

"Specks of dry plaster on the dead man's back, dirt underneath the fingernails – most likely skin – all signs of a struggle. Blunt force trauma to the head, most likely with a heavy object, presumably either stolen from the scene or stashed away – I'm sure you'll find it somewhere near here – the footprints leading down the stairs indicate someone of a heavy build – who do we know of a heavy build related to the victim? His brother. Take the brother in for questioning and get back to me when he confesses. Afternoon!"

With that, he pushed past an astounded Lestrade and John, heading down the staircase. Lestrade blinked slowly.

"Honestly, I'll never understand how he does that."

* * *

Molly never realised just how much stuff she owned. Her cottage down in Suffolk had been small and compact, and yet she'd still managed to accumulate enough furniture, trinkets, toys and other such items to accommodate a sort of large flat in London.

"Molly!" Meena's voice floated down the hallway of the flat. "Where do you want this box again?"

"What does it say on the box?"

"Uh… 'Felix's Stuff'."

"Right – put it in the living room, in here – he'll want to sort it all out." Molly continued to unpack the box in front of her. Meena entered soon after, splotches of red on her cheeks. She set down the box with a thud and a heavy sigh, to which Molly just had to giggle. Meena's choice of retort was a slight sticking out of her tongue.

"Shut up. The bohemian lifestyle doesn't call for cardio." She made to open up the box, only stopping when Molly quickly reached forward to smack lightly at her wrist. Meena gave a small pout but Molly, having experienced the same pout many a time from her seven year old son, remained deftly unaffected by the gesture and just went back to unpacking. She heard Meena give out another sigh, though this one was of sympathy, and not one designed to simply garner attention.

"Jesus, Molls. How much stuff _do_ you have?"

Molly gave a shrug. "I honestly thought it was less."

Any reply Meena might have made was cut off by a violent, shrill ringing. Meena clamped her hands against her ears.

"What the hell is _that?_"

"My ringtone," Molly explained as she stood and climbed and waded through the numerous stacks of boxes towards the sofa, where her mobile laid, its screen lit up insistently. "Felix was fed up of me never answering, so he made it as loud as possible – hello?"

"Molly." If it wasn't such a happiness for her to hear Sherlock say her name for the first time in seven years, Molly might have noticed how nervous he sounded. Fortunately, she failed to notice his immediate tone of voice, and instead gave a soft laugh, briefly touching her palm against her forehead.

"Sherlock! So you got my message?"

On hearing Molly say his name, Meena rolled her eyes and promptly disappeared, heading down the staircase. Watching her leave, Molly slowly shook her head.

"Mm – I received it while inspecting a crime scene."

"Oh." Molly tightly curled her legs under herself, hugging at her waist. "I hope I didn't interrupt anything?"

"No. It was barely a 5 anyway. Easily solvable. No doubt Lestrade will text me soon saying the brother has confessed."

So he was still a consulting detective. That was—good. Yeah. She felt her smile grow. Definitely good.

"I'm glad you called. Where are you? You're not still at the crime scene are you?"

"No, I'm at Baker Street."

"Oh, good – I know how you hate being interrupted. By the way—" Tucking her phone under her chin, Molly began the climb back towards her vacated spot and she sat herself down. "I was hoping we could meet up, maybe some time this afternoon?"

There was a pause as Sherlock considered her offer.

"This afternoon?"

"Yeah – it would be tonight, but I'm super busy with unpacking – I was hoping we could meet at that coffee house, you know the one quite near you? Not Speedy's, the other one."

"Ah. Okay. That sounds – fine, actually. What time should I meet you?"

Molly sighed and pressed the phone closer to her ear. "Well, here's the thing – I'm bringing Felix. I was hoping you'd like to meet him – plus, as I said, I'm super busy today, and can really only manage the afternoon—"

"That much was obvious. How does three o'clock sound?"

Molly gave a smile. "Three sounds great."

* * *

He would have been lying through his teeth if he claimed not to have had the slightest sliver of panic run through him when he heard Molly's voice again; and he'd still have been lying if that same sliver of panic had increased to almost a whole flood as he stepped through the door to the coffee house and found Molly sat at one of the tables. Seven years had changed her. Her posture, for example. She sat up a little straighter, and didn't fidget. She wore a smile, one of contentment. Being a mother had changed her. It suited her.

Clearing his throat a little, he moved through and weaved around the various tables towards her. Seemingly lost in her thoughts, she didn't notice his presence until he pressed his palm gently against her shoulder. She turned her head and her eyes widened a little. Sherlock gave a small, amused chuckle and he let his hand fall away from her shoulder back down to his side.

"There's no need to be _so_ surprised to see me Molly – I did say three o'clock."

Relieved, she let out a breath, stood and he felt himself smile as she pulled him into a brief hug of hello, locking her arms around his neck and shoulders.

"I'm sorry," she said as she drew away from him, her eyes following him as they settled into their seats. "I just didn't think it would be so – _strange_ to see you."

"Well, time flies when you're having fun, I suppose. Where's Felix? You said you were bringing him."

"Yeah, he's just gone to the loo. He'll be back in a minute. I ordered your coffee by the way – still black, two sugars?" Sherlock gave a nod in answer and Molly took a brief sip of her coffee, eyeing him. "And Felix is just as nervous as you are, so you shouldn't worry. The move to London's been a big thing for him."

"Nervous?" Sherlock asked innocently. "Who said I was nervous?"

"You used sarcasm as a form of greeting, Sherlock."

"Ah – so I am indeed that transparent?"

"Yes, you are." Flicking a grin at him, Molly glanced at her watch, her head turning towards the toilet door, just as it opened. Sherlock watched as a boy, of average height for his age, stepped out. So this was Felix. His hair was dark, and like many children of his age, it was a mass of curls. His eyes were the only feature about him that indicated his parentage. Warm, wide and a deep brown, they were almost a mirror image of his mother's. On seeing Molly, he grinned widely and made to rush towards her, but juddered to a halt when his eyes fell on Sherlock. His features fell into a frown.

"It's alright Felix," Molly said with a laugh, looking to him and holding out a hand. "This is Sherlock Holmes; he's a friend of mine."

Felix gingerly made his way forward and took a tight hold of his mother's hand. He tilted his head as he sat between them.

"_You're_ Sherlock Holmes? Mum said you're a detective."

"Consulting detective," Sherlock corrected as he took a gulp of his coffee. "Only one in the world."

Felix continued to look at him. "So what do you _actually_ do?"

Sherlock had encountered many reactions from people at his declaration of career choice. He had been met with fascination, gratitude, contempt, laughter and many more besides that; but never had he been met with a reaction that was so distinctly impassive.

"Uh, well, I suppose—"

"Sherlock solves cases," Molly said, directing a small smile at Sherlock before she looked back to Felix, whose eyes were still unnervingly fixed on Sherlock. "He catches bad guys – like Batman."

"_Batman?_" Sherlock mouthed as Felix tore his gaze away from him, considering his mother's words. Molly flapped a dismissive hand, though pink coloured her cheeks and the tips of her ears as she nonchalantly nibbled on a piece of shortbread. Sherlock suppressed a smile.

"So you're a superhero?" Felix asked as he looked back to Sherlock, to which he chuckled and took another gulp of coffee.

"I wouldn't go that far."

It was meant to be a joke, but if the unchanged expression on Felix's features was anything to go by, it had fallen rather flat very quickly.

"Okay," Molly said brightly, and in a remarkably deft display of dealing with her son's blunt curiosities, she reached into her handbag. "Felix, why don't you run and get yourself a treat?"

Felix gave a nod and his fist clutched around the coins that Molly dropped into his palm before he jumped off the chair to run towards the counter, only pausing to kiss at his mother's cheek and whisper something in her ear. She smiled and shook her head.

"No, you're fine – go and get something to eat." She turned towards Sherlock. "He likes you."

"He doesn't think my job exists."

Molly's dimples deepened as she gave a smile. "Trust me, he likes you. In fact, I was going to ask you a small favour – could you perhaps watch him? Just for a few hours – well, more of an afternoon – this weekend? I've got this meeting at his school on Saturday, and Meena's off on some New Age retreat thing and I don't want to bother John and Mary because they've got Ruby, and I can't impose on them so quickly after moving back, so—"

"I'm your only option."

"Basically."

Sherlock eyed Felix carefully, who now stared, with intense concentration, at a row of muffins, counting carefully on his fingers. He brought his gaze back to Molly, and he gave a hesitant smile. He hadn't had any truly intriguing cases come through of late; what could it hurt to take on a child for a few hours?

* * *

As it turned out, looking after a child—especially the child of a friend one hadn't seen for seven years—was a much more difficult task than first imagined. First of all, there was the issue of what to actually _do_. He couldn't take Felix onto a crime scene (Lestrade was a tolerant man, but Sherlock highly doubted he would extend his tolerance towards children running around crime scenes), and nor could he take him into the morgue, the lab or anywhere else that might have been of interest. In the end therefore, Sherlock did what any sensible man would do when looking after a child for an afternoon: he took Felix to the zoo.

The zoo itself was like many others, with alliterative signs and brightly coloured maps and a large range of animals to help wile away the time; and it was in a tense but ultimately companionable silence that Sherlock strolled through the many enclosures, with Felix beside him.

It was when they reached the lion enclosure that the silence between them was broken, and it was, quite surprisingly, broken by Felix, who gave a soft sigh as he leaned against the fence.

"I wish I had a dog."

Seeing as the lions were currently all piled up and asleep and not in the least bit entertaining, Sherlock wasn't too surprised at Felix's attempt at conversation; even if the choice of subject was odd, to say the least.

"No you don't," he said. "They're smelly, noisy and eventually get sent away, so any bond you might have built up is, in the end, quite irrelevant. To the dog at least."

Felix looked up at him. "Did you have one?"

Sherlock gave a nod. "Named him Redbeard."

"Like the pirate?"

Sherlock blinked and looked to Felix, eyes narrowed. Not even Mycroft had fully realised the reference until he'd one day gained enough technological know-how in order to Google it. A smile hinted at the edges of his mouth.

"Yes – like the pirate."

Felix gave a short nod and Sherlock could've sworn to see him swallow a smile of his own as he went back to studying the sleeping lions.

"My birthday's in a month. I'll be seven." When Sherlock didn't give a reply, he felt Felix pull a little at his coat sleeve. Looking to him, he found that Felix now wore an indignant frown.

"What?"

"That was an invitation. I'm having a party – I want you to come."

"Are you entirely sure that's wise?"

Unfortunately, before Felix had the chance to either reflect on Sherlock's question or give his answer, one of the lions flopped onto his back and opened his mouth, letting out a growl of a yawn. Where other children laughed or cried, Felix said nothing, but instead quickly dived behind Sherlock and clutched at the hem of his coat. Sherlock glanced down at him, a smile touching at the edge of his mouth.

"Are you scared of lions?"

"No." Felix's voice was small. "I just know that their roar can be heard from 8 kilometres away and they've got 30 teeth in their mouth, which they use to grab and kill their prey."

Sherlock's smile widened as he glanced back at the napping lions. "They also sleep for 20 hours a day – so I think we're safe for the moment."

* * *

It was after Felix's encounter with the lions that he decided he needed a souvenir, and so Sherlock found himself being dragged towards a small gift shop, which was predictably brightly coloured and filled with overly expensive toys. Yet Felix wandered happily around the shop, picking and choosing at the items on display. On their entrance, the attendant at the checkout had smiled the same measured, polite smile always given by shop attendants when they were presented with small children.

"He looks just like you," the attendant said, nodding towards Felix, and it took Sherlock a moment to register that the comment had been directed towards him.

"Well," he said, scanning the attendant before he gave a false smile, "he isn't my son."

The measured smile of the attendant grew tight before he wisely dropped it and gave a shrug.

"He's a little you anyway."

The conversation was mercifully cut off by Felix running forward and dumping one medium-sized stuffed lion on the checkout counter.

"I thought you were scared of lions," Sherlock noted, a tinge of amusement in his voice. Felix gave a heavy sigh.

"I never said I was scared of them; you just assumed."

* * *

On the other side of town, Molly, with her bag filled with paperwork, raked her fingers through her hair and took what she hoped would be a calming sip from her tea as her eyes searched the street outside. She'd never thought she would be quite _this_ nervous. It was just tea. Everyone did tea. Of course, they often didn't have a seven year break between the initial meeting and tea, and they also often didn't have the connection she had to the man she was about to meet for said tea. Still, she reminded herself. It was just tea. That was all.

The faint ringing of the bell over the tea shop door gave her cause to look up. The smile she gave was, initially, more one of relief than of any particular greeting. Donald—now sans beard, she observed—made his way through the tables and with a wide smile, he briefly brushed his mouth against her cheek before he settled into the chair opposite.

"Hi – sorry for being late – traffic was a nightmare."

Molly gave a smile. "It's okay. You got here."

"Yeah I did."

She swallowed a little, tucking her hair behind her ear. How exactly did one start a conversation with their sperm donor? '_Congratulations, your sperm gave me a bouncing baby boy'_? Informative, but perhaps not. '_Donated any more sperm lately_'? No, definitely not.

"So – how have you been?"

That was good. That was… safe. Yet by the way that Donald lowered his head and cleared his throat and rubbed at the back of his head, it was clearly quite shaky ground indeed.

"Well, I, uh, got a divorce."

"Oh. I'm sorry. Does that explain the…?" She gestured at her chin in lieu of finishing her question. Donald gave a nod.

"The wife – more ex-wife now of course – always I insisted I looked better with a beard. But, uh, that's irrelevant." He gave a smile. "I was beyond happy to receive your call, by the way."

"I'm glad – I mean, you're not under any obligation whatsoever – I just thought, in case Felix ever wanted to get into contact with you, it would be good for you two to actually be in contact, rather than me just – handing him a number, down the line—" Molly breathed out a sigh. "Is this making any sense?"

Donald chuckled lightly. "No, it makes perfect sense. I already see my kids on a regular basis, so it would just be, well, great to see Felix too. And I did always occasionally think about, you know, how everything turned out, with you and him, so… yeah. Happy to receive your call."

Molly's smile widened and took a sip. This whole tea idea was turning out much better than previously thought.

* * *

With his stuffed lion gripped in one hand and a 99 ice cream in his other, Felix had a distinctly questioning look on his face as he watched Sherlock pay the ice cream vendor.

"So what _does_ a consulting detective do?"

"Your mum already told you that," Sherlock said, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets, even though the heat had not abided and he practically feel the beads of sweat popping out against his forehead. Felix merrily walked along beside him, taking tentative, quick bites of his ice cream.

"Yeah, but she said you were like Batman. Batman has a costume." Felix paused, his gaze flicking over Sherlock's coat. "Is this coat your costume?"

Sherlock snorted. "No. And I hold no other markings of being a superhero, so you can forget that path of questioning."

"I wasn't questioning you," Felix said, licking at his ice cream and squinting when the cool temperature invaded his mouth and shot straight towards his brain. "I was – asking a question."

Sherlock made a low noise at the back of his throat. "You ask a fair few questions. Why do you want to know what a consulting detective does anyway?"

Contrary to what Sherlock had predicted, Felix did not provide some asinine retort or brush off the query with yet another question but rather, he gave a light sigh and an almost casual shrug.

"Mum said you defeated bad guys – I just wondered what – what _kind_ of bad guys."

"Murderers, psychopaths, blackmailers, that sort of thing."

"Oh. Did you defeat that Moriarty man?"

Sherlock paused. _Ah._ Felix watched him with narrowed eyes, nibbling thoughtfully at his ice cream once again.

"Mum told me he returned and you defeated him."

"Yes. I, uh, did."

Although Felix had been born for barely a few months by the time of Moriarty's return, his existence—coupled with the undeniable connection Molly had to Sherlock's cheat at death—still had Mycroft determined to hide Molly away in some safe house deep within the Peak District. Even if the Moriarty threat was a fake, every precaution had to be made. That was Mycroft's reasoning, and although Sherlock had begrudgingly agreed with it, he wasn't exactly predisposed to like the decision. The fact that Mycroft had also taken the executive decision to disallow any contact between the two of them only made him hate the decision more.

"Hello!" Molly's warm call caused the two of them to turn. Where Felix gave a large grin, dropped his now empty ice cream cone onto the pavement and promptly barrelled himself towards her, letting himself be scooped up into her arms, Sherlock merely stood back and watched, only allowing an edge of a smile to appear on his face.

"You have a good time at the zoo today?"

Felix nodded eagerly.

"Yep! Me and Sherlock, we went to see the lions and look what I got!" Proudly, he held the stuffed lion aloft and Molly laughed, kissing at the top of his head.

"I am so glad you had so much fun! And I see you had ice cream as well! Did Uncle Sherlock have some too?"

"No, he said it would make his brain freeze."

Molly, still grinning, tilted her head at Sherlock and cocked an eyebrow.

"It's been scientifically proven that ice cream can—"

"Hush," Molly said, flapping a hand before she made to step into the block of flats, hugging Felix tight. "C'mon, we need to get some supper. I'm hungry. You hungry?"

"Very – but I am pretty full up on ice cream."

"Well, I guess we'll just have to skip pudding then – Sherlock, could you grab my bag?"

He started at this, blinking. "What, you want me to—?"

Molly turned her head, a look crossing her face that told him she thought his joining them was entirely obvious. Indeed, she didn't need to say anything else before Sherlock had picked the bag up and headed into the lobby with the pair of them.

* * *

The flat itself was larger than most, but still too small to be called sprawling. On entering, Molly took Felix, who had grown remarkably sleepy during their journey up to the flat, straight to his bedroom. It was with an ever growing smile that Sherlock moved forward and leaned against the doorway, watching as Molly settled her son into bed. The afternoon at the zoo had only confirmed something which Sherlock had already suspected; in an astonishing amount of ways, Felix was exactly like Molly. Like her, he was quiet, yet had a sprawling imagination and an ability to play, but he also had an astonishing amount of pragmatism about him. Perhaps it was that similarity in personality that made their relationship such a closely-knit one.

Moving away, Sherlock sighed softly and stepped into the living room, settling onto the sofa and tipping his head back. Seven years had done a lot for Molly's taste in furnishings. Before, she seemed to have a pathological need to fill the spaces in which she lived with throws, flowery patterned cushions and trinkets she had found in charity shops and during car boot sales. (She had forced him to come along to one of those once, which was a bad idea all around really, considering he had soon deduced that some so-called 'rare antiques' were actually just badly painted knockoffs and ended up having to run away from a particularly irate, rather large, car boot seller.)

Having a child though, had tempered such urges. Sure, the flowery patterned cushions had stayed, and she hadn't quite released herself of her need for a throw or two, but the trinkets had gone, replaced by children's toys and somehow, converse to the norm, becoming a mother had made her become much tidier. Everything had their own little storage box, or own little corner were they had been hastily grouped. The thought that she had hurriedly tidied up before his arrival that afternoon passed through him, but was hastily dismissed with a chuckle and a shake of the head.

"Sherlock?" He looked up to find Molly stood at the doorway to Felix's room.

"Yes?"

"Felix wants you to help me read to him." She tilted her head, biting at her bottom lip a little. "You wouldn't mind, would you?"

Sherlock frowned as he stood, pulling at the hem of his jacket. "Me? What for?"

Molly gave a sigh and a one-shouldered shrug. "No idea. He said you've got the correct audio pattern for it. But would you, just this once?"

"No, of course – no problem," Sherlock said with a smile, moving back towards Felix's bedroom as Molly grinned and ducked inside. Shutting the door behind him, he found her sat beside Felix with her legs tucked underneath herself and her arm wrapped around Felix's shoulders, holding him close. Felix, at that point deathly focused on the book in his hands, immediately snapped his head up and grinned as Sherlock stepped inside, shifting a little so Sherlock could sit on his other side. Seeing the book in Felix's hands, he raised an eyebrow.

"Lord of the Rings?" he asked incredulously.

"He has a high reading age," Molly said and she wrinkled her nose at him before she turned her attention back to Felix. "Right, now where were we?"

"Tom Bombadil!" Felix said cheerfully, pulling the book open. Molly's smile widened.

"That's right – do you want me to start?"

Felix shook his head. "No, I want Uncle Sherlock to."

Sherlock couldn't help but blink. Uncle Sherlock? Well, that was unexpected, to say the least. What was especially unexpected was the way in which Sherlock found himself smiling widely as a result and well, how very right the idea of being named as such actually felt.

* * *

Gently, Molly closed the door behind her and with a sigh, leaned against it. She flicked her warm, brown-eyed gaze up at Sherlock and smiled.

"Thank you for doing that," she whispered, stepping away and into the kitchen. "And for doing the voices too."

She glanced at him over her shoulder, her eyes shining playfully. "In fact, I'm starting to think you got into it far more than I did."

Sherlock gave a shrug. "He asked me to do the voices, so I did the voices."

Giving a laugh, Molly stepped back into the hallway, an open wine bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other. "You didn't have to do the motions and the gestures as well – but then you've always gone above and beyond the call of duty. Anyway – do you want to join me for a glass? Been a long day."

"Very much so," Sherlock said and he followed Molly into the living room where he found her already curled up on the sofa and an open photo album in her lap. Even from his vantage point in the doorway, he could see the photographs of his younger self, and the sight made him roll his eyes.

"Do you really need to look through that?" he scoffed, pouring out a glass of wine for the pair of them. He almost felt Molly sticking out her tongue at him.

"Yes!" she protested, taking the glass he offered out to her. She continued to flick through the pages. "I have to say though: you haven't changed a bit from these photographs."

"Oh? In what way?"

"You're still a grumpy git," Molly teased and she pointed out one photograph where he appeared particularly sullen, his hands tucked under his chin. "Honestly, is it so hard to smile?"

"Apparently, yes. Wait – I haven't seen – where's that from?" he asked, brows furrowing, pointing to another, smaller photograph. It was of him, but he was noticeably less sullen than any other photographs Molly may have had of him. Instead, he was sat at his computer, typing away, totally oblivious to the presence of the camera. He almost looked at peace.

"Oh, that one. Do you remember that day we spent solving crimes?"

"Vaguely." A lie: he remembered it vividly.

"I took that when we were waiting for your next client to arrive. You were so focused on your typing, you barely noticed me."

"No," Sherlock mused. "I would've noticed you."

It was only when silence began to creep over them that he realised the weight of his words. Molly shifted a little, sitting up straighter, with her grip around her wine glass tight as she took a gulp. Sherlock lowered his gaze, checking his watch.

"It's getting late," he muttered, "and it's been a pretty long day, so I should…"

He left the rest of the sentence to dissolve on the tip of his tongue and rapidly rose to his feet, making for the hook where his coat waited. Molly called his name, a firm question for him to stay. Sighing, he tilted his head at her and gave a shrug. Her mouth lightly dropped open, words right on the precipice of her tongue. Shaking her head a little, she nodded towards his watch.

"That watch... Didn't I—?"

"It's the one you gave me for Christmas, yes." Sherlock grabbed at his coat and shrugging it on, shoving his hands into the pockets. When he spoke again, he did not look to her. "Goodnight, Molly."

He closed the door behind him. Molly leaned back against the sofa, folding her arms over her knees. Frowning, she took one last sip of her wine. Standing, she gently set it down beside Sherlock's own abandoned glass. The photo album lay open, forgotten.

* * *

_Important documents have been recently been lost. Suspected mole in the Cabinet. The Prime Minister wishes you to retrieve them. – MH_

_It has been three weeks since your last case. Surely you must be getting bored by now. – MH_

_The freedom of the Western world is under threat, Sherlock. Answer your phone. – MH_

"Who's that?" Molly asked lightly, sitting down on the bench beside Sherlock. On seeing the candy floss in her hand and the mouse ears atop her head, he stifled a laugh, to which she elbowed him.

"Shut up. I'm a mother; I'm _supposed_ to get involved with this sort of thing."

"Mm. It's Mycroft, by the way."

"Oh." She crossed her legs, taking an experimental bite of the candy floss. Her scrunched up nose and the way in which she tightly screwed her eyes shut gave away just how much it was not to her taste. Discreetly, she leaned over to throw it into a nearby bin. Sherlock chuckled, just as his phone made a noise for the fourth time in ten minutes.

_I will tell Mummy. – MH_

Sighing, he pulled at his glove with his teeth, tugging it away from his hand, and swiftly typed off a reply.

_Busy. Get one of your men to sort it out – SH_

"There – that should get rid of him." Sherlock stuffed his phone back into his trouser pocket and glanced around the funfair. Nearby, there was Felix, studiously and valiantly attempting to hit at a row of coconuts. He was successful for the most part, except for the times he almost hit the vendor instead of any of the coconuts.

"How does he deal with it?" At Sherlock's question, Molly whipped her head around to look at him, and narrowed her eyes.

"Deal with what?"

Sherlock's phone beeped again. Fetching it from his pocket, he continued to focus on Molly. "The fact that his father is a sperm donor."

"Oh, that. His birth story."

"Is that what you call it?" Sherlock asked with a soft chuckle, glancing down at his phone.

_This isn't funny, Sherlock. The world's safety is at stake. – MH_

"Yeah." Molly gave a sigh, lightly brushing her hair out of her eyes. "I had to think of something to tell him, so I – Sherlock, are you _sure_ you're not too busy? I've got it covered here; if Mycroft needs you—"

Sherlock shook his head, typing at his phone screen. "No, he's just being dramatic. Runs in the family."

_It's a particularly painful cavity I take it? SH_

He'd barely sent off the message before another message came through. He couldn't help but smile.

_If it's really not urgent, can I have your attention now?_

He looked up, and Molly burst out a giggle, switching off her own phone and dropping it back into her bag. Getting the message—both literally and figuratively—Sherlock obediently turned off his own phone and shoved it into his coat pocket, crossing his hands against his stomach.

"Right – birth story."

Molly huffed, rolling her eyes a little.

"You're such a…" She considered him, but waved a hand. "Anyhow – Felix deals with it pretty well. When he was younger, I did try to tell him about the stork and what have you—"

"Ah, yes. You loved him so much that the magical stork dropped him on your doorstop. A mistake, I assume."

"Pretty much. Well, he believed it for the first few years – but then he found Google." Molly gave a heavy sigh, pressing her hand to her forehead but she smiled all the same. "God. I found him reading up on sperm donation. Bloody Wikipedia."

"How did he take it?"

"Pretty well, considering the circumstances." She let out a giggle. "He actually sat me down and very sternly told me that although I had been dishonest with him, he knew it came from a good place, and he wasn't going to go into therapy in later life as a result."

A laugh practically belted out of Sherlock, his shoulders shaking with the force of it. Molly smacked him lightly in the chest.

"It's not _funny!_" she insisted, but he continued to quietly laugh. She bit at her cheek, pressing her lips together. "He calls his dad a Viking now."

Sherlock spluttered another laugh, but quickly swallowed it on seeing the withering glare Molly aimed at him and he arranged his features into a look of innocent curiosity.

"Viking?"

"I have no idea. Something about trades."

"Mum!" Felix turned, waving at Molly, beckoning her over and pointing to an increasingly exasperated vendor. "The man says I need money to play another game!"

Her smile grew as she shook her head and stood, withdrawing her purse from her bag.

"Sorry about this," she said, grimacing slightly. "Back in a minute!"

Sherlock watched her move away. Trades? Viking? Interesting. He rose to his feet and moved towards the coconut shy stand, tapping Molly on the shoulder.

"Molly – what was the name of your donor?"

"Oh, um – Donald. Donald Brady," Molly answered distractedly, now more focused on throwing a shot at the coconuts. Sherlock frowned. Donald? Donald.

"Donald…" he muttered under his breath. Something, a phrase, a turn of words, was on the tip of his tongue, obscured by _something_. Moving back to the bench and sitting, Sherlock closed his eyes and pressed his hands to his mouth. "Donald the…"

He opened his eyes. _Donald the donor._

Oh.

* * *

Rubbing at his eyes, John ambled down the stairs, towards his front door and swung it open to be met with the ruffled, haggard, worried face of his best friend and consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes.

"John," he said quickly. "I think I'm having a mild panic attack."

"Really?" After so many years of knowing the detective, John had grown into the habit of receiving such dramatic declarations with a large pinch of cynicism. Nevertheless, he stepped back and allowed Sherlock to enter, shutting the door behind him.

"Okay – what's the cause of this mild panic attack?"

"That's…" Sherlock flicked his tongue against his tongue in thought, sighing slightly as he searched for the right words. "That's difficult to explain."

"Then start from the beginning," John replied, quickly ushering Sherlock into the kitchen. The consulting detective leaned against the worktop as John settled himself into one of the chairs. Sherlock let out a shaking breath.

"John – I think – _think_ – I might be Felix's…"

"Felix's _what?_"

Sherlock tilted his head. The memories were so hazy, so blurred. That was the trouble. "Donald…" he whispered, running his fingers through his curls. "Vikings… charity…"

"Are you sure you haven't had anything to drink?" John asked slowly, eyeing Sherlock warily. "Because you're getting weird again."

"No, not drunk – just – confused. Frostrup… _Donald_… Oh God." Sherlock sank his fingers into his hair and carefully slid onto the floor, wrapping himself into a small ball. John sighed and made to stand.

"You _are_ drunk – I can't bloody believe this, I'll have to phone Molly—"

"I'm Felix's father."

John froze. His eyes widened, his features draining of colour. Achingly slowly, he sat back down.

"How in God's name is that possible?"

"The party," Sherlock explained, his words faltering. A side effect of the shock he was feeling he supposed. "I – I was in the bathroom – and Donald's – _act_ – it was sat there. I think I – knocked it somehow? And I – I switched it, John."

There was a heavy silence as the two men, equally as dumbfounded as the other, let Sherlock's realisation seep into their minds. Quietly, John stood and crouched down in front of Sherlock, pressing his palm against his friend's shoulder.

"Sherlock – you have to tell Molly."

"I really don't, I—"

"No. _No._ You cannot let this one go. You _have_ to tell her."

Sherlock whined—for the first time in over twenty years, he had actually _whined_—and sunk his head lower into his hands, curling up tighter against himself. He couldn't tell her; he just couldn't. It would complicate everything. For three weeks, he had been Uncle Sherlock. If he revealed the truth, he wouldn't be that anymore. He would be… he would be The Viking. And being The Viking would mean responsibility. It would mean obligations. It would mean _change._ Sherlock felt a shudder go up through his spine.

"I don't want to be the Viking," he mumbled, hugging his knees to his chest. John smiled coldly.

"You don't have a choice mate – you are. Now go and _tell_ her."

* * *

Straightening himself up, Sherlock threw back his shoulders, breathed through his nose and pressed the buzzer for Molly's flat. A voice soon came floating through the intercom.

"Hello?"

A heavy sigh of relief escaped Sherlock and his shoulders sank forwards. "Felix. What are you doing up?"

"Had a nightmare," Felix replied. "Mum said I could watch a DVD. I'll buzz you in, okay?"

The front door to the block of flats duly buzzed and Sherlock stepped through, somewhat amazed that the ferocity of his growing nerves hadn't caused him to stay rooted to the spot. He advanced up the stairs two at a time and came to stand in front of Molly's door. Clearing his throat, he gave two rapid knocks. On the second, the door swung open and he was met by Felix.

"Hi Uncle Sherlock. Mum's in the kitchen." Sherlock nodded, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him as Felix wandered off, heading back into the living room and jumping onto the sofa, sitting cross-legged as the film continued to play. Tempering any urges he had to immediately turn and run away, Sherlock forced himself to enter the kitchen. Hearing the door shut, Molly—busy stirring a cup of tea—smiled up at him.

"Hey – is everything alright? Because if it's do with a case or something, it'll have to wait until morning. Felix had this nightmare you see, and I don't want to leave him alone."

"It's not to do with a case, no." He stepped forward. "I – um – just needed to talk," he muttered, clearing his throat and shoving his hands into pockets. Molly put her spoon to one side and picked up her tea, gently blowing on it, her gaze gentle and kind and inviting. Her words, unspoken though they were, were audible to him. _Go ahead._ He puffed out a breath, closing his eyes. In theory, it was easy: he just had to say it, and tell her the truth. In practice? Not so much. Fidgeting, worrying at his bottom lip, he automatically began to pace.

"Molly, as you remember – I said this to you, years ago, but you'll probably still remember it – you are the one person who matters the most, especially to me. So you know that I wouldn't say this, at least not without any meaning or motivation behind it—"

"Sherlock – Sherlock!" He juddered to a stop as Molly gave a little, light laugh. Shaking her head, she put her tea to one side and smiled, leaning against the worktop. "I know what you have to say."

Sherlock's brows furrowed.

"You do?" He tempered the panic in his voice with a clearing of his throat. "I – I'm sorry."

"No, it's okay," she said with a shrug. "I mean, this isn't exactly the way I'd have expected you to tell me, but then I guess life never goes the way you plan, does it? I have got one request to make of you though, Sherlock."

"Request?"

She nodded. "Mm. Well, it's just so – um – sudden. So I'm going to have to ask for a little time."

"Time," Sherlock echoed. He gave a nod. All things considered, she was taking this remarkably well. "I can give you time."

Molly bit back a smile and for a brief moment, she closed her eyes in relief.

"Thank you Sherlock. I know you probably expected fireworks and champagne, because you know," she laughed nervously, "I've always held a torch for you, but I just need some time to – adjust, you know what I mean?"

"Adjust?" Sherlock said, as if the word were foreign to his tongue. Adjust? _Adjust._ Ah.

Molly's smile faded. She swallowed. "Please tell me you were going to say what I thought you were going to say."

Sherlock slowly shook his head.

"Oh God." Molly's voice came out as more of a squeak. She half-coughed, half-gasped, her hand flying to cover her chest, but the panic was still apparent. "Right. Um, let's just forget what I said, okay? Um, it was – I was – uh – I'm kind of in this Donald thing anyway – um, no, it was stupid, um… Night!" Her cheeks rosy red, she ducked past Sherlock and ran out of the kitchen, leaving Sherlock to remain rooted to the spot as he attempted to process precisely what had happened.

He blinked, and narrowed his eyes. "Donald?"

Finally, he began to move, heading towards the living room. Molly was nowhere to be seen.

"Felix?" Sherlock asked. "Where's your—?"

There was no answer given by the little boy (_your son_, the John inside his mind palace reminded him) but Felix did point downwards. Moving forward and leaning against the back of the sofa, he found Molly lying flat on her back, her hands clasped against her face. Sensing that her admittedly weak cover was now blown, she risked a peek through her fingers and Sherlock felt himself smile.

"Can we – forget this entire evening happened? Please?"

Sherlock let out a breath, which Molly would no doubt take as a token of his amusement, and not of the relief that was flooding through him. He widened his smile. "Already forgotten. Goodnight Felix."

Coat billowing out behind him, he left. Scrambling up, Molly shut the door behind him and slumped against it. Switching off the television, Felix pulled himself up, turning to look at his mother.

"Mum?"

"Yes, Felix?"

"Is Uncle Sherlock still coming to my birthday party?"

Molly sighed happily and drew herself away from the door, stepping towards her son and cupping at his face.

"Of _course_ he is sweetie." She drew her fingers through his curls. "He wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Even though you told him you liked him?"

"Yes. Even though I—" She paused, dropping her hands to her sides. "Hang on. Were you eavesdropping again?"

"No. Your voices carry."

A blush crept across Molly's cheeks, but she quickly shook her head and waved a hand. "You know what, this is a _very_ complicated situation – let's get you into bed."


End file.
